


It's not about Jaws

by TheManSings



Series: the next day and forever after that [4]
Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:37:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManSings/pseuds/TheManSings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey takes Ian to the beach and tries to pick apart his fears. He wishes he could just blame Jaws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not about Jaws

He’s not sure exactly how it started. He’s positive he asked him about it once – had to have, he thinks.

Maybe.

The sun was shining hot like it was angry. So bright you stop thinking about how it’s warming your skin and start wandering further toward the idea that it wants to get back at you somehow. And he can’t help but think about how fucking pissed he would be constantly watching an entire world of people who only existed because of him not showing any sort of appreciation. Global warming is supposedly happening right? The sun is gonna one day explode and we’re all fucking done for no matter what –

They don’t call it a sunburn for nothing, the bitch means business.

“You can swim right?” Mickey squinted looking across the water. Ian crossed his legs next to him in the sand. “I mean you gotta learn how to swim to join the army right? That’s gotta be a –“ He put a hand over his eyes to see better before looking down at the red head. “A requirement.”

Ian flipped him off and jammed his hands into the sand. His fingers wiggled flipping grains onto Mickey’s feet. “I can swim.”

“Mhm.”

He looked at Ian wondering how someone who so willingly signed up to dodge bullets could be afraid of the ocean. It was typical though, the one thing Mickey really enjoyed had Ian biting his nails down to bloody stumps.

“It’s not jaws is it?”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Jaws.” Mickey started to sit down next to him. “You know big daddy shark _we’re gonna need a bigger boat_.” Ian eyed him amusingly. “Because you can see the screws in the movie – it’s fake man.”

“I’m not afraid of Jaws.”

A little girl about 7 years old ran past them and tripped into the sand landing by Ian’s feet. A flinch rippled violently through his body making Mickey’s mouth drop in surprise.

The girl stayed still for a moment on her hands and knees and he wondered if she was going to cry – the calm before the storm type thing. But she didn’t. She turned instead a smiling face toward the two of them, sand planted into her palms falling down like it could have been blood before running directly to the water.

Mickey sighed leaning back onto his elbows feeling his tailbone crack. “Are you sure you can swim?” Ian jumped up sending a wave of sand spiraling and he screwed his eyes shut in avoidance. “What the fuck?”

“I want to go home.”

The sun blotted out all his features leaving nothing but a shadowed outline reminding him of seeing someone in a dream. Like the person you always seem to see in the dark corners that’s making you cry and you want to grab them but they’re just out of reach. Mickey flexed his fingers out to brush against his ankle just to make sure – just to solidify that he was awake.

But he supposed you could still touch things in dreams.

He pressed into Ian’s skin watching the way his blood pooled and evened out. He was getting burned.

 

The ride home was a quiet blast of air conditioning and Ian’s twitchy radio hands. Funny what you learn about people when you live with them –

Because Mickey could’ve guessed that Ian was a neat clean person but not that he couldn’t wear socks inside the house. No matter what the temperature every night he felt cold feet warming themselves against his legs and _goddamn it put some socks on_ but never would he. Said that they suffocate his feet.

A lot of things seem to suffocate Ian.

And he can’t sit through a song, constantly searching to find the exact right combination of sounds and words that can make him feel okay. Mickey would want to kill him for it if it didn’t worry him so much.

Rex’s barks could be heard through their apartment walls the moment they stepped into the hallway. Ian hissed out a ‘ _fuck’_ and Mickey knew that he was worried about their crabby old bitch neighbor.

_“Is this thing yours?” Her wrinkles made her look like someone had crumpled her up and thrown her into the back of a closet. A forgotten shirt that no one even wanted to bother to iron now._

_Ian looked from Mickey to Rex and back to her. “Yea he’s house trai—“_

_“Did you talk to the landlord?” Her eyes narrowed._

_Mickey puffed out his chest in prep because he wasn’t above knocking this woman out and the fucking dog was staying but Ian placed a hand on his chest._

_“Talked to him last week.”_

_Her veins bulged blue out of thin skin and Mickey couldn’t help but stare and wonder whether or not it was possible for them to just break right through. The idea of his insides rising to the surface and spilling out from his body made him swallow down the watery pool of prevomit._

_They fucked extra loud that night exactly on the other side of her bedroom wall._

Ian peeled his shirt off the moment they walked through the door bypassing the dog all together. Mickey’s hand fell to ruffle his ear and he watched as the man who was the two sides to his every coin disappeared into their room.

 _“I’m tired.”_ Being all he was left with to pick apart over a bowl of lucky charms.

They didn’t have any fancy sort of cable or direct tv because when originally making their list of things that are worth the money – it simply didn’t outweigh jell-o.

But now because of this Mickey found himself far too invested in shitty shows. It was true that daytime television sucks and sometimes it’s all that was on and he couldn’t bring himself to do anything else. Every moment spent sitting there before it a ticking reminder of how his brain was turning to mush.

He didn’t mind mush though, it was better than sharpening his thoughts to a pointed edge that knew exactly how to stick it where it hurt.

The show didn’t even need a name – it was the same damn thing. Some poor bastard who had it coming who trusted the wrong person at the wrong time winds up dead. And everyone _really_ cares a whole fuck ton for about 20 minutes but soon it’s not about that dead stripper or that burned kid from the ghetto.

It’s never really about them because those people are ghosts. He and Ian – ghosts.

It’s always about the mastermind behind the pain and they wont tell you that. You will sit through an hour of earnest cops and mourning parents only to find out at the end that no one really cares that they’re dead. It’s always about revenge, justice, a boost to your ego for being smarter than the other guy and still flesh rots and memories fade.

If it bleeds it reads so why should they ever want to stop the bleeding?

The main cop was interrogating the kid with a smirk on his face and he was the killer, Mickey was sure of it. Any second now he would bring down the law, slam his fist right down in front of his face and demand answers.

One… two… “Mick?”

“Jesus!” He jumped kicking Rex and knocking the remote off onto the floor. Ian stood in his boxers with sleep still in his eyes. His hair had started to grow a little longer and was ruffled in evidence of a restless sleep.

He walked over smiling softly and sat down next to him. His skin automatically making Mickey’s body warm in a flush of electricity that still made his heart mock him. “Sorry.”

Ian started drawing lines onto the back of his hand. His fingers calloused and yet still soft pressing in varying degrees of force and staring like Mickey’s skin held the answer to something. He couldn’t imagine what that might be.

“You okay?”

Ian nodded silently but continued to trace circles. The silence becoming louder than anything he could have screamed. “Will you do me a favor?” He scrunched his eyes waiting for the punch line before answering. “Will you take me back to the beach.”

Mickey turned his body making sure to keep his hand connected to Ian’s. “What, now?”

Another silent nod.

The night had dropped at least 20 degrees and they grabbed sweatshirts before trekking out to their shit box of a car. Curiosity supposedly killed the cat and Mickey never related to that statement so much until Ian. Because he wanted to take him to the beach, he wanted to watch him reveal a secret about himself and let another layer peel back.

But he also hadn’t eaten anything besides that bowl of cereal and he’s pretty sure he’s getting sick and it was fucking cold. It was a shitty hand, especially when you’re pretty sure you’re the cat.

“You’re not gonna pick right now to go swimming are you?” Mickey crossed his arms shoving his hands further into his armpits to stay warm. His toes buried deep into the sand. “You will freeze to fucking death and there’s no way in hell I’m going in to save you.”

Ian sighed and looked over smiling.

Mickey liked the beach more at night. Maybe it was because he liked night more in general, maybe because there weren’t sticky sun screened children screaming for their oblivious parents. He’s sure it was those things but he was unlike other people in the sense that the vastness of the ocean made him feel really fucking small and he _liked_ that. It gave him perspective.

“I’m afraid.” Ian spoke clearly with each word still small.

“Of what?”

Ian gave him another look before turning back to the water. “Of everything I guess.” Mickey stayed quiet. “But the _ocean_ – it’s so big and you don’t know what’s below you. You can’t see you know?” Ian pulled his sleeves down over his hands. “And sometimes I feel like I’m drowning and can’t breathe and it burns up through me like – like a _disease_.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid that it’ll somehow know. If that’s how I feel on land, what do you think I’ll feel like in there?”

Mickey tucked his chin closer to his chest and knitted his forehead into a crumple of thought. “You’re not drowning Ian.”

A breeze wrapped them into a chill and he waited for him to speak again.

“I know.” He nudged him with his elbow in reassurance.

The waves crashed in offbeats. It was funny to him how the sound still remained soothing even though it wasn’t a set pattern. Like how a dripping faucet had made him want to murder for so long but the erratic break of water on a shore could lull you to sleep.

Ian scratched at his eyes and Mickey could see how tired he still was. He couldn’t wait to go to bed and keep his hand folded over the scar that still made him twist inside. Ian wasn’t drowning, Mickey wasn’t going to let him so they should go. They should run from this fucking beach and never touch water of any kind again and he wants to tell him this. Wants to grab him and steal him away but he can’t –

He unhooks one arm and finds the spot on Ian’s torso that makes him sigh. “You wanna put your feet in?”

He smiled and pressed in further letting Mickey’s hand meld into him.

“Sure.”


End file.
